A Collection of Thoughts

From The Kitchen Window

My skin is pricked with goosebumps. I sink my hands into the stream of warm water, indulging in the pleasure of the hot liquid. The clanging of pots and pans isn't enough to drown the ceaseless noise that makes up my mind. The glass offers a scene to attach my emotions to. A dulling hum of rain droplets pattering the open Earth reaches me. Soil is rich with excitement and reeking with the scent of life. The creamy sky is tinted by a pigment of green, the leaves generous enough to allow the rain drops to free the chloroplast from their cells. Flower petals are gently kissed by the precipitation. Dropplets caress the length of sunflower stems as they make their way into the garden soil. Worms are summoned from the Earth like jovial spectors, naked to the open air. The melodic chirping of birds is barely audible, their song overpowered by the low rumble of the sky. The squirrels chatter to themselves safely above the wet ground in their trees. All seems content. I silently appreciate this moment through eyes blurred by the rising steam of warm water.

Pruned fingertips. Cold toes. Chapped lips. Peeling skin. All accounted for at the kitchen sink. I keep track of these inconveniences, counting them with each rain droplet that meets the ground. Aching heart. Heavy lungs. Throbbing skull. Sinking eyes. How I wish I could keep up with them all. Yet they fall, and fall, and fall. Accumulating in puddles of mud and grass, flooding the unsuspecting landscape with its volume. A spoon propels the stream of water forth, spraying the inside of the window. Both sides of the glass are now covered with water, as rain continues to trickle down from the window pane. I realise now what seemed content, was indeed melancholy. It is a master of neatly concealing, this melancholy. You wouldn't notice the nature of it unless you were searching for it. It bends the branches of the trees like a raging storm. The leaves are violated, the chloroplast forcefully ripped out from within them. The sky is swallowed up by murky greys and inky blacks. Down it pours onto the gardens, waterlogging the roots of plants not strong enough to endure its intensity. Petals fall with globs of saturated pollen to rot, and stems are broken. The worms wriggle in panic, drowning. It silences the birds, and it turns the squirrels into recluses. It soaks into my toes, and drains into the soapy water. It wouldn't make a difference if my hands were reaching up to meet those raindrops, or if they remained plunged into this sink. The water is everywhere, and I would be wet all the same. My existence would not make the slightest tremor as I am absorbed into the puddles. All my raindrops fall upon me. My kitchen sink is no more as the walls cave in round me. The dishes clatter and dissipate. I am consumed by the rain. In this moment, I want nothing more than to be reclaimed by the soil. My energy scattered, and my nutrients recycled. I give into the urge of letting go, and fall into the merciful grasp of the ground. With shallow breath and fading consciousness, my last wish comes to fruition. For my body to finally be of some use. I would feel complete if life were to cultivate from it.

Finally, all is still. No longer am I able to see. Instead, I am gifted with the ability to feel. However, this feeling is deeper than that of who I was. It is confident, and it is natural. I sense the movement around me. The change in temperature, the presence of the sun. I can do nothing but find peace in the silence I am shrouded in. It is a true, blank silence. A serene quiet. The superfluous white noise of my mind has dissolved into this bliss of calm. There is a force that dwells within me, the determination to survive. It pulsates and it jolts the fibers of my being. Hope is instilled within me, the rain is no more! No longer are the pruned fingertips, cold toes, chapped lips, and peeling skin. Gone are the days of an aching heart, heavy lungs, a throbbing skull, and sinking eyes. The end of melancholy resides within the simple will to live. Unnecessary emotions are overwritten by a basic state of being. I find equilibrium in the gentle hum of my existence, my energy balanced and concentrated. I draw the final remaining particles of nutrients from a present source. Summoning all my strength, I erupt from my incubative state. My form has changed, and I am born anew. I manifest into new life extending from the decay of who I once was. With each effort to break the surface, I feel a jab of something tugging on me. The surface is so tantalizingly close that I persist in my efforts. It is the last strand of remaining life tethered onto me. It ebs and it flows, wavering in its fragility. The force knows of its own weakness, and pleads with me to stay. I refuse. With one final push, the string of life snaps and I am through. I tear through stale blood, shriveled muscle, and bloated flesh. I protrude from the rib cage that once concealed my pulsating heart. Chambers that once throbbed with anxiety echo no longer. Lungs that recycled shallow breaths swell no more. Eyes bloodshot with strain roll to the back of a once aching skull, finally able to rest.  I am conscious. I am aware. I am alive. The atmosphere is so fresh that it stings.

I sprout as fungi. I reach to the sky with elegance and determination. My soft, fleshy, spore bearing body vulnerable to the gaping world. I feel the soft powder of a pair of moth wings brush against my cap, and it settles for a moment to rest its dampened legs. It is the first greeting of my new life. I couldn't me more thankful to be blessed with such a presence. It flutters away as quickly as it came, carrying with it a few particles of my spores. This is proof that even now, life will not end with me. I am now content with the moisture. The rain droplets that had brought harm to me before now cleanse the Earth around me. I am thankful for the life that this water brings.